The movie of Nick Hornby's book has been transposed to Chicago, but with more fidelity than you might expect. Cusack, a wry and believably apathetic Rob, rakes over the ashes of dead relationships and casts a wary eye out for a mid-life crisis he's too lethargic to put himself through. Director Frears' big idea is to have Rob break off from scenes to recount dry monologues on sex and vinyl. He does this so often you wonder why he doesn't write a book and have done with it. Then you remember: the book's written, this is the movie. That's not a putdown, really. I enjoyed the film - twice! I related! Taylor, Gilbert, Gregson Wagner: chicks so cool they endow the uncredited Zeta-Jones with honorary coolness. Black's a dynamo, a bullshitter in a vinyl store. Dylan, The Beta Band, The Chemical Brothers - the soundtrack's packed, but you wish they'd let you hear more of it; you wish that Hornby wrote women as funny as his blokes; and you wish it meant more than a one-night stand.